


As Real As It Gets

by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)



Series: Imagine Tony & Bucky [39]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreamsharing, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunions, We Meet In Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4032904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3530903">December 19, 1991</a>"</p><p>The man is named Tony, and he seems to know James better than he knows himself. In fact, there are many times when he doesn’t remember his own name—only Tony’s—and has to be told, over and over. Sometimes he pretends not to know, just so Tony will hold him close, and whisper it against his ear, until his world is reduced to warmth and safety and Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Real As It Gets

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr here: [dezinformatsia.tumblr.com/](http://dezinformatsia.tumblr.com/) and all of my Imagine Tony & Bucky fills can be found here: [imaginetonyandbucky.tumblr.com/tagged/dezinformatsia](http://imaginetonyandbucky.tumblr.com/tagged/dezinformatsia)

There is cold. There is blood. This has and always shall be the way of things. In some ways, the consistent horror of it all is a comfort. The cold does not discriminate. It has no master, it has no will, it is deadly perfection. The blood has no desire, no need for desire; it simply waits patiently to be spilled.

Unstuck from any sense of self, the asset is a shaking, hollow construct waiting to be granted purpose. It wishes to  _be_  the cold. Considering the cold is the only memory the asset seems to retain—it is instinctively familiar when nothing else is—this desire is understandable. To be the cold is to be understood.

Once, it was a man. It  _knows_  this to be the truth, but there are types of knowing, and the asset’s understanding is shallow at best. It has been shown efficient ways of killing men, as well as more ponderous methods. The asset is made of the same base materials, is the same shape, it bleeds as does any man, and so it follows that the asset must also _be_  a man.

And yet, it feels there is something missing. It does not understand what makes it so very different. How is it that some men must bleed, while others do not? Who decides which man is allowed to hurt the asset, or instruct it, or throw scraps and call it dog?

By the asset’s understanding there are the men it has killed, and those who remain, blood waiting patiently.

“Again.”

It does not brace itself for the blow, as instructed, nor does it attempt to evade, or block, or do any of the things a man might do. It remains still, ignoring the pain as one of the handlers strikes it across the face.

“Again.”

It does not remember what it is being punished for. That is of no consequence. The asset does not require anything aside from the name of the target.

They strike the asset repeatedly. When it falls to the floor, it is propped back up. The men progress from hands, to blunt objects, until some goal is reached. The next time it falls to the ground it is left in place, breathing heavily against the cold floor, watching blood fleck across the white of the tiles with each painful exhalation.

This is better, although it hurts terribly. It has been broken. While the asset does not comprehend the entirety of the conversation being held nearby, it understands enough to know they will not be intervening. They will watch and study as the asset repairs itself.

Darkness has begun to creep around the edge of vision, which means the cold is waiting. Nothing moves there. The asset is alone, as always. It kneels in the snow, and stares, and asks itself, “what have I done?” as it watches over the dead.

The asset dares not blink, nor look away for even a moment. There is the possibility that this is another test. Sometimes, men hide amongst the dead. Sometimes, men sleep. Just because they have been still does not mean they will always be still.

There is a sound. This is wrong. The asset has always been the only source of sound in this place. A beautiful man has wandered into his line of sight. He is immune to the cold, exempt somehow, and the asset is alarmed.

He is  _familiar_.

When this strange, familiar man touches the asset, warmth floods through it, pushing away the cold, and this is not right. The man does something, and they are taken from the wasteland, are deposited somewhere warm, humid, confusing.

Sensation comes after the thaw, so that thoughts flow into each other almost alarmingly. There are questions he wishes to have answered, and… He… It…

“What have I done?”

This strange, warm man with control wraps an arm around him, and it…  _he_  closes his eyes and shakes, hardly hearing the words this stranger is saying, because he remembers this! There was another, with fair hair, smaller even than this young man, and he would hold him. They would hold  _each other_  to stay warm.

“If you only ever say the same things, this’ll get boring real fast.”

It is all over far too soon. He is returned to the cold without warning, alone once more, alone with the bodies, and the blood, but the cold does not touch him now. He is warm, and this means he feels.

The man that is the asset weeps, he surveys the dead, he understands the folly of pretending they’re simply sleeping. This is his work. He has taken all of these lives, has broken these bodies. He bleeds into the snow, an endless supply of blood. The snow does not care in the least. When the wind howls, it sounds as if his victims laugh at him.

And when he opens his eyes again, he is on a white tile floor, covered with his own dried blood. He surprises them, these men who would hurt him. Later, he is led past their bodies and taken down the long hallway. He understands that he will be put away again, he is going back to the deep cold, and he smiles, wondering if he will see the stranger.

+

The man is named Tony, and he seems to know James better than he knows himself. In fact, there are many times when he doesn’t remember his own name—only Tony’s—and has to be told, over and over. Sometimes he pretends not to know, just so Tony will hold him close, and whisper it against his ear, until his world is reduced to warmth and safety and Tony.

Tony takes control of their surroundings with the greatest of ease, and it is many years before James thinks to ask how.

“Uh, well, I mean, this is my mind, right? This is just a dream, and so… I don’t know  _how_ , exactly. Just that I concentrate on what I want to have happen, and since I’m a cocky son of a bitch, I believe I can actually pull shit like this off. Badda boom. Everything sort of snaps into place.”

“I wanna come here, even when you’re not around,” James said, shifting uncomfortably. Tony sometimes reacted strangely when he spoke of things that had transpired while he was away. “It’s nicer here.”

But Tony seems to take this quite seriously, not disturbed in the least. “Okay. So, maybe start with absorbing as much detail as you can, then close your eyes and describe it to me.”

So James studies their surroundings, and then settles between Tony’s legs, back against his chest, Tony’s arms coming around him, a hand placed over his eyes. “Lay it on me.”

“Sand as far as the eye can see. Waves, crashing. The sun is setting. It is approximately 23°C.” Although Tony made no noise, James could feel him shaking with laughter, and made to sit up.

“No, sorry, I’m sorry,” Tony said, holding him tight, pressing a warm, lingering kiss against his neck. Mollified, he settled back down, allowed himself to be held. “I didn’t mean to…”

James is pulled into consciousness violently, muscles tensing, sucking lungfuls of air, and only just manages to keep from crying out for Tony by name.

“Prepare the asset,” he hears, and laughs for no reason at all.

+

Something is different. They have taken him to the chair, and he r _emembered_  the chair. They have used the chair, and still, he remembers. There was a beach, and Tony was there. They were together, and he was warm, was held safe.

“I’m realer than anything,” Tony had said once, and James remembers this as well, believes it.

Because of his belief, when a broken, injured Tony appears before him in the snow, takes them to a wasteland of sand and heat, he  _fears_. Tony is hurt here, which means Tony must be hurt wherever it is he goes when they’re apart.

James begs, tries to get the information, needs to find Tony, to save him, to punish those who would dare hurt him, but infuriatingly enough, Tony will not say. He is saying goodbye, and James is screaming.

When he wakes, he is given a target. He dares not disobey, does not wish to be put under so soon, wants to dream as men do, wants another chance to see Tony. Perhaps the next time he will open his stupid mouth and say something more useful than goodbye.

And he does sleep, and he does dream, and he channels his anger and his misery and his fear, and finds his own way to the beach. Part of him expected Tony to be waiting there, a smile firmly in place, arms open and ready.

The beach is empty and cold. He is patient like blood, and so he waits. A lifetime later, Tony appears, and now it is his turn to hold, to comfort, to dry tears, and say, “Tony,” over and over again. “You’re alive.”

+

The next time he remembers, he gives himself away, somehow. Maybe a hesitation as he is brought to the chair, or perhaps he has said Tony’s name in his sleep. The reasons why do not matter; what matters is the result. They pump him full of a new blend of chemicals, they place him in the chair, and James is drowned, is destroyed.

The asset is only the asset. The only name the asset needs is that of his target.

+

“…so you can finally meet Tony.”

James perks up, tuning back into the conversation. It wasn’t that he’d been ignoring Steve, it was more that Steve’s voice was familiar, and comforting, and he’d allowed himself to be lulled into a calm, quiet state. This, though, drags him out of his quasi meditative headspace.

“Tony,” James repeats softly, shaking with anticipation.

The name isn’t uncommon. It’s the height of folly to be so excited, so hopeful. He’s still unsure as to whether or not Tony is real. Most of his memories are Swiss cheese, and he’s been too chicken to say anything about his on again off again companion. When people are already worried about you flipping your wig and hurting someone, it isn’t exactly reassuring to tell them you’re try to track down the guy that hung out in your head with you for the last twenty odd years. Especially when you’re unsure of whether or not those dreams even happened.

He sleeps as often as possible, and each time he finds the beach, and he looks and he looks, but he cannot find Tony. The landscape of his mind has changed. It is the echo of the beach they had shared, and James worries that finding Tony requires whatever combination of chemicals and torture he was subjected to at the hands of HYDRA. Realistically, he might never see the man again.

This fear keeps him on edge right up until he walks into a room and sees Tony standing there.

There is no way to adequately describe the joy he feels as he shoves past Steve, dodging Sam and Natasha, not slowing down until Tony is in his arms, is held tight, is lifted, and, “Tony!”

Tony is shaking in his arms, or maybe he is trembling as he holds him close, breathes in the familiar scent of him, catalogs all of the ways in which this is both achingly familiar and altogether alien.

James feels hands tugging at him, at Tony, trying to separate them, and ignores them as they kiss. Happiness settles deep in his chest, the warmth spreading out much as it had the first time Tony touched him in that icy wasteland, years and years ago. Tony is alive, is real, is warmth and love and life and everything good, and he is in James’s arms.

Tony tastes salty like the ocean, and James is uncertain which of their tears is to blame for that. It doesn’t matter though, what matters is Tony growling, “Where have you been?” before kissing him again, deeply, possessively.

His lips tingled pleasantly from the attention, his heart hammering in his chest, face aching from smiling. “I thought…”

Naturally, Tony interrupted him. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m as real as it gets.”

And then James is laughing, they’re laughing together, and moving to kiss again when Steve almost shouts, “What the hell is going on?”

He feels bad, wants to answer, but the thought of letting go of Tony, of even turning and looking away leaves him sick with panic. What if this is just another dream? What if he turns, and he wakes, and loses Tony again?

“I searched for you everywhere,” James swore, switching to Russian. “Our beach was empty, but it wasn’t like before. It was like a copy of a copy.”

“I know, it was the same for me,” and Tony has his hands around James’s forearms, fingers curled in tight, as if he’s equally concerned about them being parted. “I went to the wasteland, and it was just the bodies. You weren’t there—you weren’t  _anywhere,_ James. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“What bodies?” Natasha asked, which was bad, because she asked in English. Steve and Sam are immediately on alert, and as much as he’d rather stare into Tony’s eyes all day, they’re going to have to try to explain this somehow.

Steve makes this clear by stepping closer, and placing a hand on first Tony’s and then Bucky’s chests, pushing them apart. “Okay, I need to know what’s going on.”

“You really aren’t going to like the answer, Cap.”

One of Tony’s hands is curled around his wrist, and Bucky sidesteps around the obstacle that is Steve, until he is nestled up beside Tony, already making contingency plans for escape if any of them has the stupid idea of trying to come between the two of them.

Maybe Steve can see it on his face, because his expression softens, and this time the hand he places on Bucky is gentler, just a squeeze of the shoulder. “Like it or not, I need to know.”

“Right, uh, well,” Tony scrubbed a hand through his hair, and shrugged. “Back in 91 when my parents died, I had this dream. It was so insane I sort of chalked it up to the drugs and booze in my system.”

James watched Tony’s face as he spoke, tried to dig the memory out, but this one is lost to him. He only knows that, for him, it seems as if Tony has always been there, walking in and out of his mind, keeping him sane, keeping him human.

“I saw my parents car crash, only it wasn’t how the police had described it, because a man—James—was there. He, uh, made it happen.” Natasha and Steve exchanged a look, and James felt Tony’s fingers tighten around his wrist. “I figured it was a combination of grief, exhaustion, drugs, only he showed up again in another dream. And then it started happening all the time, I’d fall asleep and I’d be in this icy wasteland, I’d find James, and we’d relocate.”

“Tony always took us someplace warm,” James added, unwilling to look and see what Steve thought of all of this. “Away from the bodies. I thought… I thought he was another test, at first. He made me remember my name.”

“Right,” Tony agreed, smiling at him. “And I learned Russian, because sometimes when he showed up he refused to speak English. Once he was able to tell me his name, I’d repeat it to him whenever we saw each other.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam interrupted, hands on his hips. “Are you seriously telling me that you two have been meeting up in your dreams since 1991?”

“On and off again, yeah,” Tony agreed, chewing at his lower lip. Steve was staring at him, and James wasn’t sure why, but Tony looked ashamed. “There were at least a few times where years passed before I saw him again. I thought… For a while there, I thought it was a manifestation of my grief over my parents, or just symbolic of how fucked up I was in general, but then… I didn’t know what to think. I just went with it. Steve, I didn’t  _realize_ …”

Steve’s expression was dark, and Tony let go of him in order to rub his hands over his face. “Damn.  _Damn_.”

“What?” he asked, alarmed.

Tony wouldn’t look him in the eyes. “I should have tried to find you, to rescue you, but…”

“They would have killed you,” James interrupted, grabbing Tony by the shoulders. “Tony, inside the dreams I could remember, but then they… it’s hard to piece together. They changed something, and the dreams stopped. I would have killed you and not even known I was doing it.”

“Tony, Bucky’s right. I’m not even going to pretend to understand what the hell is going on, but I do know you. If you’d thought for a minute that he needed rescuing, you’d have done everything you could to get him back.”

Bucky had the feeling Tony would continue to blame himself for some time, now matter what they said.

“Hindsight is 20/20, man,” Sam agreed, shaking his head. “And leave it to you to find something crazier than a wormhole opening up in Manhattan. You can’t beat yourself up for what HYDRA did.”

Unable to help himself any longer, James tugged Tony close, wrapped his arm around him, tucked his nose against the warm skin behind Tony’s ear, and sighed. “I keep expecting to wake up,” he whispered in Russian.

Tony’s arms were around him without hesitation, the guilt temporarily set aside. He could feel Tony’s smile against his skin, smiled in return. “To say this is surreal is the understatement of the century.”

“So, uh, you two,” Sam trailed off, looking to Steve, then Natasha.

“Ah. Well,” Tony cleared his throat. When James pulled back to look at his face, Tony’s cheeks were pink. “Hey, it happened gradually. It made sense if you were there!”

Sam shrugged. “Even you’ve gotta admit, it’s kinda freaky to get sexy with what you described as the personification of your grief.”

Natasha snorted, and Steve looked somewhat uncomfortable, but Tony had apparently pushed through the initial awkwardness, was staring at James as if he was the center of the universe. “I feel like we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Go on,” Steve said, folding his arms across his chest. “I need to try to figure out how much we’re going to tell Fury.”

Which was how James ultimately found himself alone with Tony. He was shockingly awake. James hardly remembered who he was, but he could still summon a memory of Tony as a teenager, again as a twenty something, the feeling of his lips the first time they’d kissed. The relief of being in his arms, held tight, fingers running through his hair. Tony had the power to make everything warm, to remove the blood, to take away the pain.

“You look the same as the first time I saw you,” Tony said, breaking the silence. His eyes were wide as he reached out and touched James’s face. Calloused fingertips trailed over his cheeks, down along his jaw, Tony’s thumb brushing across James’s lower lip.

“They kept me in… Steve called it a cryochamber,” he explained.

At this, Tony’s calm wonder slid away, the misery evident. “I’m  _so_  sorry,” he whispered, and that isn’t right at all.

James kissed him again, dragged his lips against Tony’s over and over again, stealing his words, silencing him, until Tony was holding onto him tightly, holding fistfuls of James’s shirt, and panting into his mouth. That was better. He hooked a leg behind Tony’s knees, and before the other man knew what was happening, they’d toppled to the floor.

“Not fair,” Tony laughed, finding himself pinned under James’s weight. There’s less sadness in his eyes, and this is good. “You know, I do have furniture.”

“Never needed it before,” James pointed out, sliding his hand under Tony’s shirt. His skin was incredibly warm, and smooth, silky almost, and there is so much more to feel here than in the dreams.

“You could have anyone now,” Tony said, but he was touching as well, a hand against the small of James’s back, another under his shirt, but over his heart. “You don’t have to settle for me.”

“There could only ever be you, Tony.” James kissed him again, then rested his forehead against Tony’s, staring down at him imploringly. “Don’t you feel the same?”

Tony made a soft, wounded sound at this question, pulled James’s full weight on top of himself, held on tight. “Of course I feel the same,” he swore. “I spent almost twenty five years drifting and miserable, because I thought the person I belonged with didn’t even  _exist_ outside of my head!”

Despite himself, James smiled, rolled onto his side pulling Tony along with him, just as he’d done countless times on their beach. They fit against each other like pieces of a puzzle. Tony tangled their legs together, his hands everywhere as they kissed, and kissed, breaking apart time and again to laugh at how they each keep expecting to wake up.

What had started as comforting each other had evolved into sharing physical pleasure over the years, but it had always been bittersweet at best. Each coupling was frantic, plagued with urgency, clothes pushed and shoved aside, everything a desperate race against time. The first time he’d hardly understood what was happening, Tony ultimately blindsiding him with an orgasm. Rough hands, rougher mouths, grinding and writhing against each other like animals. On more than one occasion Tony had vanished on him in the blink of an eye, leaving him wild and unfulfilled and feeling terribly alone.

Now that they had all the time in the world, James wanted to use it. Wanted to map Tony’s body, determine which scars had never followed him into the dreamscape. Wanted to get to know him all over again.

“Tony…”

“You’re staying here,” he said, not even waiting for the question. “I’m probably not going to let you out of my sight for the first couple months. Just a warning.” James found it difficult to stop smiling. “I’ll cook for you, we can shower together. Okay, maybe I’ll let you go to the bathroom on your own, but otherwise you’re stuck with me. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” James agreed, biting into his lip to try to quell his smile. The open expression of joy felt dangerous, even though he couldn’t be safer.

He wasn’t even sure why or what was to blame for his tears, but when he began crying Tony held him tight, stroked his hair, said, “James,” over and over again.

“We have time now,” Tony whispered. “Let’s take it, okay? Use up every last minute on each other.”

“Yes.”

“We should talk to Steve, let him know you’re moving in up here, then maybe I can give you the tour of the Tower.”

“Do you think it’ll ever happen again?”

Tony’s grip on him tightened. “I hope so. Haven’t much liked my dreams since you stopped starring in them.”

“Me neither. It’s been harder, finding the beach. And now, sometimes, the bodies move. I recognize their faces, and  _remember_ , and…”

Warm hands, a kiss pressed to his forehead, and an odd peace settled over James. “I’ll try to find you tonight. Maybe we can face them together.”

James shifted, climbed to his feet and pulled Tony up after him. “We can face all of it together.”

“Together,” Tony agreed, not letting go of James’s hand. And for once, James didn’t want to sleep. Everything he’d dreamed and wished for had finally come true.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was worth the wait!!! XD


End file.
